


One More Mission

by priscilladm



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Idk how to write PWP so..., Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Promised Day, Roy "feminist before they had a word for it" Mustang, Royai - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:15:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25533454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/priscilladm/pseuds/priscilladm
Summary: Roy reflected on the women in his life and just how critical they each were to each of his missions. There was one woman in particular who unfailingly came to his aid, and even though she never asked any questions, he had so many for her. Post-Promised Day.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 22
Kudos: 106





	1. The Bar

It was a Saturday evening. It was pouring rain outside, and as usual he felt useless.

There was one bar Roy always went to on days like this, but it was no longer there. The events of the past six months destroyed both its physical building and the human infrastructure. The owner and all the employees fled prior to its destruction, anticipating the dangers ahead.

It wasn’t just any bar to him, though. It was a place he called home, a place where he was loved and cared for by a makeshift family who all chose to be together.

Everyone thought he frequented this bar because he enjoyed the company of the beautiful women who worked there. This wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t for the same nefarious intentions everyone assumed. He grew up with these women, eating alongside them at the dinner table and laughing at their jokes (but only the ones that were actually funny).

These women were his sisters. They may not have had the same blood, and he may not have ever called them that to their faces lest they laugh at his expense, but they had the same home and the same heart. He loved them, far too much to ever cross an admittedly imaginary line. As a family, they had plenty of fun with their clothes on, poking fun at each other and playing games. He refused to ever let anything get in the way of their siblinghood.

He knew these women loved him in a special way when he began to utilize them as informants in his own line of work. They recognized his ambition was fiery, but also that his intentions were pure: he sought a country that cared for its people and atoned for its past sins. He was the only man of integrity that they knew.

There was no doubt about it, he couldn’t have gotten to where he was today without any of those women.

Then, there was his adjutant, his right-hand, his Queen.

He discreetly slipped into the first bar he found once he reached the edge of town. The sign was bright and flashy, but the building itself was dilapidated. The windows were covered by eggshell-colored curtains with specks of dirt, and they were fraying at the edges, as if moths had long occupied the space. Even though he wore gloves, he could tell that the door handle was rough, no doubt a result of the coating wearing off from overuse.

Without hesitation, he walked to the furthest back corner, taking a seat inside the booth furthest away from the bar. The booth reeked of spilled whisky and stale cigarette ash stuck in the crevices of the satin couch. The table was slightly sticky, most likely from spilled beer that the employees didn’t feel like scrubbing off.

He didn’t particularly care for any other bar that wasn’t Christmas’, but he didn’t want to be in his house by himself with his own thoughts, either. _I hate this place already_ , he thought.

The bartender eyed Roy up and down, noting his lack of an umbrella and formal overcoat. He left his position at the bar and approached the booth. “What’s the poison tonight, sir?” he asked with a toothy grin, as if Roy was a regular.

“A cup of black coffee and a hot green tea,” he stated simply.

The bartender crossed his arms and looked at Roy skeptically.

“Came all the way here in the rain for coffee and tea? I can tell you, ours isn’t that good.”

“Yes,” he responded, a touch of frustration in his tone. “And I’ll pay a little extra to use your phone.”

The bartender shrugged. “Yeah, it’s behind the bar if you wanna follow me.”

Roy arose from the couch and walked with the bartender, who led him to the phone behind all the bottles of liquor. He dialed one of the few phone numbers he memorized, his mind racing.

The phone barely finished its first ring before he heard the voice he needed.

“Hello?” Riza’s voice was somehow always the perfect combination of gentle and firm.

“Hawkeye, come to Jack’s Bar.”

He heard her laugh. “General, I hardly consider myself fun company to drink with.”

“Please,” he responded, more a statement than a question or request. His heart ached with desperation and melancholy, eager for someone to provide human connection. He certainly wasn’t going to get that from the person tending bar.

She sighed heavily, noticing how his voice was somehow both full of pain and empty. “I’ll be there soon, sir,” she stated flatly.

“Leave Hayate at home. I wouldn’t want him to get sick.” He hung up, not even saying goodbye or allowing her to respond.

His eyes scanned the room and noticed that there was no one else there besides the bartender. He walked back to the booth he previously occupied and sat down to find that the coffee he ordered for himself and the tea he ordered for Riza both sat ready for them at the table. Somehow the bartender managed to prepare it without distracting him. _I’ll have to leave a better tip than anticipated_.

He lifted the cup from its saucer and placed it under his nose to smell. Its scent was overly burnt, as if the beans had roasted too long. But it was coffee, and he wasn’t drinking liquor, so it would have to do. He took the saucer to his lips and took a sip. _For her sake, I hope the tea is better than this_.

They didn’t speak much after the Promised Day, but that wasn’t any different than how they coexisted previously. The paperwork increased exponentially, which was expected given just how much there was to write about. A government conspiracy to sacrifice most of its citizens in favor of power and immortality, led by creatures previously thought to be myth, wasn’t exactly a one-pager. She continued to remind him to do his paperwork accurately and precisely, to always be careful when by himself, to not forget to eat lunch. He was more diligent about getting things done, because there was finally a clearer path forward for him, and an opportunity to make things right. Things were certainly different in Amestris after the Promised Day, but somehow, in spite of all the trauma they went through together (or perhaps because of it), not much changed between them.

Every once in awhile, he saw her fidget uncomfortably and reach into her shirt to touch the scar on her shoulder. The wound was so deep that even after six months, it likely was still itchy from healing. Without fail, every time she did it, he saw her eyes grow cold and lifeless, if only for a moment. No one else would have noticed it, but he knew her better than anyone else.

He argued with himself all the time when he saw her touch her shoulder. He ordered her to stay back when he went to follow Envy—cut and dry, she brought the pain upon herself. But in reality, in the deepest crevices of his heart, he knew she would stop at nothing to protect him, so of course it was his fault. If only he had stopped and thought about something more than vengeance for Hughes. If only he had stopped and thought about the life right in front of him instead of the life already lost.

He removed the still-damp glove from his right hand to examine the transmutation circle he carved on his own skin. It was mostly healed, but the scar tissue would always remain. There was indeed a moment when he thought about the lives before him, and it was because of this circle. It saved four lives at once: himself, Havoc, Alphonse… and of course, his Lieutenant— _oh, she’s a Captain now, gotta remember that,_ he reminded himself. Lust would have killed all of them, if not for his quick thinking. He shuddered, but he was unsure if it was because of the rain still slick on his clothes and skin, or because of the trauma of the memory rushing across his body.

His thoughts were interrupted as he heard the door creak open, and the sound of the rain on the pavement grew louder as a result. He didn’t care much about whoever else happened to walk into this bar, and from the angle, he couldn’t see any of the features of the person who just opened the door—just the outline of someone in a heavy overcoat with an umbrella. But he heard a set of footsteps that sounded all too familiar, and he knew.

The bartender turned his attention to the door. “Lady, you lost or something?”

The person at the door closed it behind them, unfurled the hood from the top of their overcoat, and quickly closed up their umbrella. The hood revealed that it was indeed Riza Hawkeye, with her unmistakable amber eyes and blonde hair, this time closely cropped as it was many years before in her youth.

Roy smirked and answered before she could even open her mouth. “Settle down. She’s with me.”

The bartender shrugged, seeming to recognize that this was none of his business. He continue to polish glasses behind the bar.

Riza propped the umbrella against the wall next to the door, unfastened her overcoat, and slung it over her forearm before walking over towards Roy at the booth. She wore the exact same outfit she wore on the Promised Day: a slim-fitting black turtleneck, grey jacket, and a loose set of black pants. The only difference was her overcoat, which was a nice shade of deep maroon but slightly tattered around the hood. She carried a small black purse, slung on the shoulder that did not bear Envy’s wound.

 _I should remember to get her a raise so she can get something nicer_ , he noted to himself.

She looked at him, eyes full of concern, as she asked, “General, are you alright?” He noticed that she wouldn’t even sit down in the booth.

“I’m fine. In fact, I was waiting for you to get here before ordering any liquor.” He patted the spot next to him for her to take a seat.

She shook her head. “Sir, you know I prefer not to drink much.”

“Please,” he stated again, with the same tone of urgency. Noticing the vulnerability in his voice, he hastily added, “I even got your favorite, green tea. No liquor for you if you don’t want any.” He noticed her quickly move to rub her shoulder and saw her eyes freeze in the same fashion they always did.

“Alright, sir,” she sighed.

She scurried into the booth on his right side and set both her coat and purse down in between them, seemingly to create a respectable amount of distance. Rumors circulated about the nature of their relationship, but these came from people who didn’t know them, and were quickly shot down by those who did.

Their shared past, their trauma bonding, their plans for atonement and radical change—no one needed to know, and moreover, no one deserved to know. Nothing in their outward behavior would signify anything other than a completely professional relationship, albeit one rooted in mutual respect and trust. For years they did this proverbial dance, always keeping each other at arm’s length away to dispel any notion of impropriety. It didn’t matter: each part of their body spoke to each other in codes no one else would understand, even if they never touched.

She took a sip of the tea and smiled. “This is nice on a rainy day. Thank you.”

The air was cold, even in the bar, but all Roy could feel was heat. Heat in his ears, cheeks, throat, chest, belly, everywhere. It wasn’t the coffee. It was only lukewarm at this point, as he was too lost in his thoughts to drink it while it was still hot. It was finally having a true moment together, away from work, away from others, and in real life—not just the fantasies in his mind.

“It would be pretty rude of me to not have something to offer you,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry for dragging you out here.” He fiddled nervously with the glove he removed earlier, trying to find words to fill in the gap. “I’ve said it before, but I’m sorry about your scar.”

She nodded. “And I’m sorry about yours,” she responded, turning to look at his hand. He sensed her discomfort as she used one hand to hold the cup of tea and the other hand to trace a finger around the saucer. Of course, only he noticed these nervous twitches of hers.

“Do you regret any of what happened?” he asked, looking right into her eyes. She immediately looked away; he instantly felt guilty for asking such a personal question and making intense eye contact at the same time.

Putting the cup down, she continued to stare down at the table as she responded, “We did what had to be done. I have no regrets. I hope you don’t either.”

“I hope Christmas and the girls don’t regret anything.” He took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. “I should have listened to the bartender when he told me the coffee wasn’t that good.”

She chuckled at his remark before adjusting in her seat and looking back at him. “There you go again, always thinking about others. You’re clearly in pain.” Her bright eyes were filled with sympathy and kindness that he didn’t feel he deserved.

“Those were some of the most important women in my life. I can’t just forget about them.”

“I’m not telling you to forget them. I am reminding you they are capable of taking care of themselves and each other, as they always have.”

She was immensely perceptive, noting the strengths in others that they never saw in themselves. It was one of the many traits that made her so valuable to him. There were countless moments when he felt lost in his thoughts and ambitions. Far too often he woke up at all hours of the day terrified that he was motivated by all the wrong reasons, held back by the fear that he wouldn’t be able to do what needed to be done. He would call her and without telling her anything, she somehow still knew how to assuage his concerns and guide him down the path they walked together. This moment was no different: he felt so seen and so affirmed, reminded both of the perseverance of all those women and Riza’s own ability to comfort him in just the right ways.

He only wished they could comfort each other more personally.

“I need a drink,” he mumbled, unsure of how to move forward.

“Please don’t get carried away. Let’s get you home. Besides, you’re soaking wet without an umbrella or a coat, and I don’t imagine this storm will let up any time soon.” She turned to the bartender. “Excuse me, sir—the check, please?”

“It’s 100 cenz," the bartender responded gruffly without so much as looking up from what he was doing, “but he said he’d give me extra for using the phone.”

Roy reached in his pocket with his right hand, but Riza gently stopped him by touching the parts of his hand that he had not carved into. He felt goosebumps along his arm.

She smiled weakly. “Things have been difficult,” she said, pulling her hand away from his to reach for her purse, “so please, let me do this.”

She quickly opened the latch on her purse, pulled out her wallet, and fished around for 200 cenz. She left the coins on the table and placed her wallet back in her purse. Slinging the purse along her shoulder, she sashayed out of the booth, and Roy had to temper the fire pooling in his belly as he watched her hips wiggle away. He knew for a fact she wasn’t being suggestive—she was simply getting up to go about the rest of her day—but that image would be carved into his mind far deeper than the circle carved on his hand.

“Sir, could you please hand me my coat? It would be rude of me to reach over you.”

He nodded, eager for a distraction from the thoughts running through his head. He gently picked up the coat and handed it to her over the table before standing and moving out of the booth.

Their walk to Roy’s house was silent, punctuated only by the sound of the rain on both the pavement and umbrella. Riza, observant as ever, had the sense to bring an umbrella that would fit both of them, just in case. Silence didn’t scare them—they thrived off of subtlety. But it always had to be the right kind.

“Thanks for making sure I didn’t die in the rain, Captain,” he murmured as he fiddled in the pocket of his slacks for his keys as they approached the threshold of his house.

She nodded. The corners of her lips turned upwards to suggest a smile, but it was the same smile she wore for the years following Ishval. The rest of her mouth refused to follow, her eyes didn’t light up, and her cheeks didn’t move at all. She watched him carefully, clearly waiting until he was safely in his own home before leaving him.

He found his key and motioned to put it into the lock, but paused and turned to meet her gaze. “Would you come in? I have something I want to show you.”

She pursed her lips, but as she looked into his eyes, they were even emptier than when he lost his vision—dark in color, yes, but also devoid of any meaning or drive.

“Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this with the full intent of making it a one-shot and was immediately shocked at how long it became. At first I was frustrated that this wouldn't be one-and-done, but I don't know if this concept would have worked with fully fleshed-out scenes if it were a 10,000+ word one-shot. I don't think anyone wants to read that.


	2. The Living Room

Roy placed the key into the lock and turned it, opening the door in front of him. He wiped his boots on the doormat and stepped in first—he was much less damp than when he entered the bar earlier that afternoon, but still a little wet.

Riza followed his lead, wiping her boots on the doormat as well to respect the house in which he resided. She stepped into the house, umbrella angled outside, and shook off all the excess water that accumulated over the course of their walk.

“Where do I leave my umbrella, sir?” she asked gently, motioning towards it. “I’ve never been here before so I don’t know my way around.”

He noticed her quickly surveying the bare bones of his house. The space was small, covered in dark wood with little decor. There was a long but empty countertop to their right side, and under it was his stove. Behind that was a fridge, a small cabinet on top of it, and a single chair with no dining table. Straight ahead of the front of the house was an open door that led to a restroom, and next to it was another door that led to his bedroom. To their left was a dark grey couch in exceptional condition, and in front of the couch was a coffee table with a single book on it: _Coffee Table Alchemy_.

“Under the counter is fine,” he responded, pulling his boots off and setting them next to the door.

She did as he instructed, then pulled off her overcoat and left it on the counter. From there, she closed the door behind her. He turned back and locked it.

“I’m still as cautious as ever, Captain,” he responded when he saw a puzzled look on her face. He smiled. “Take your shoes off and have a seat. Do you want any more tea?”

She removed her boots carefully and placed them next to the umbrella, taking care not to spread the remaining mud over the wood floors. “No, thank you,” she answered politely. She followed him towards the couch and took a seat, again maintaining a few feet of distance.

“After all this time you still won’t get close to me. I wonder why,” he said, half statement and half query. He reached towards the direction of the table and pulled something from the first page of the book. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

It was a small photograph of their unit minus Kain Fuery, the photographer. It was taken long before the Promised Day—in fact, it was from when they were still stationed in the East.

Roy noticed a genuine smile creep up on her face as he held it up for them to look at together.

“That was such a long time ago,” she remarked. She pointed to herself in the photo. “Hard to tell, but this was right around when I started to grow my hair out. That was such a different time.”

He nodded. “Do you ever wish we could go back to that time?” His voice reverberated with a combination of longing for simplicity and understanding that nothing could change what transpired in the years after the photo was taken. He knew his own answer to that question, but he needed to know hers.

“No. Everything led us to where we are now. What we did was so much bigger than us and our ambitions.” She paused and shifted closer to him on the couch. She wasn’t quite right next to him—if she were, he felt like his entire body might explode. “And it showed just how much we mean to each other.”

She pushed his half-wet hair out of his eyes and looked straight into them as she let her fingertips brush his temple. He felt her gaze radiating warmth, kindness, concern, loyalty—all the things he always knew she possessed, and all things of which he did not deem himself a worthy recipient. He didn’t know how to appropriately respond.

“We have a long road ahead,” she continued.

He watched her turn away as tears welled in her eyes. The bright amber looked so sadly beautiful even when punctuated by the idea that their true atonement would likely result in their own demise. He placed the photo back in the book, took her hand in his, and rested them down on the couch. “Do you know why I asked you to come inside?”

She smiled, fighting the tears in her eyes as she pointed to the photo. “To remind me that at one point I grew out my hair?”

“No.” He wanted to laugh, but his eyes shifted in clear discomfort, unsure if he was ready to cross a line they danced along for years. “I hurt Christmas and all those women. I couldn’t live with the knowledge that I also hurt the most important woman of all, too.”

Before he could even look to gauge her reaction, she pressed her hand gently against his cheek. “No. You didn’t hurt me,” she reassured him in a tone that was simultaneously confident and soft. Her voice cracked in conjunction with the tears falling down her own cheeks. She withdrew her hand and placed it in her lap.

He frowned. “I have a handkerchief but it’s still damp from the rain. I think the rest of them in the house are soiled. I’m sorry to be so useless on days like this.”

She chuckled as she used the back of her hand to wipe her tears away. “It’s quite alright,” she responded, seemingly recovered from the depth of emotion that had temporarily overcome her. “I know we have to be strong, and I’ve always known the path we were going down. It can still be overwhelming sometimes. I’m sorry my emotions got the best of me again, General.”

“It’s ok to be vulnerable, Hawkeye. It’s what makes us human.” He paused. “Much more human than those homunculi could ever hope to be.”

She brought her hand up to his cheek again and stroked it softly before taking hold of his jaw and leaning in to kiss him.

He admittedly spent many years wondering what it would be like to kiss this woman. This was nothing close to what he envisioned. In every scenario, he initiated their first kiss. There would have been build up—perhaps dinner or drinks, and lots of repartee. He would have brought her to her doorstep and kneeled to pet Hayate before giving her a quick kiss good night and going on his way.

But it didn’t matter. This kiss was much better than he could have ever hoped or imagined, because it was true to who they were. He needed her, so of course she came to him with no questions asked, even though she deserved to enjoy her Saturday uninterrupted by his despair. She took care of him and anticipated his every need, even bringing an umbrella that would accommodate them both. They bared their souls to each other, both in word and in deed.

This kiss was soft and warm, gentle and chaste. It was a thank you to Roy for his kindness, for his understanding, for knowing what to say. It did not seek passion or incite lust, and it did not scream urgency or desire. It instead operated as a simple invitation to either of them. It was Riza who crossed the line, not Roy.

She abruptly took her hand back and pulled her lips away. “Sir, if that was inappropriate—“

He smiled as he pressed his fingertip to the lips he felt on his just moments ago. “I never imagined you’d be the one to kiss me first.”

She chuckled. “We may not be able to atone for everything we’ve done, but after devoting our lives and sacrificing so much, can’t we have something?” It was both a query and a statement, a declaration that these two war criminals still managed to do their part to make the country a better place. Still, he heard a twinge of fear in her voice, as if he would change his mind and things would have to end right there.

Instead Riza’s words set him aflame, igniting a deep rooted need for her that he continuously grappled with for over a decade. The years passed and the one thing that remained the same from the moment he met her was that he wanted to kiss her.

As children, he would have given her a gentle kiss on the cheek one night, away from her father’s seemingly omniscient eyes, signifying an innocent affection. As they grew, he would have given her a clumsy kiss on her lips, teeming with uncertainty and inexperience. When he left her father’s funeral, he wanted to kiss her hand, to let her know he was thinking of her and that there was always a place for her somewhere in his thoughts— _but god, Master wasn’t even in the ground all the way and there I would have been, trying to defile his only child_ , he had to remind himself.

In Ishval, he wanted to kiss her breasts, with the passion of a soldier who didn’t know if he would live to see another day and needed to at least establish a form of human connection. If he was going to die, at least one of his last memories would be their skin pressed together. While stationed in East City, he wanted to kiss her perfect earlobes, right next to the earrings he left anonymously on her desk after a day of shopping—to this day he wasn’t sure if she knew it was from him, but he had his suspicions since he never saw her without them on. When she was taken from him by Wrath, he wanted to kiss her forehead, to comfort her and remind her that he would always protect her even though she was the one who demanded to protect him.

Still, none of these individual kisses were what he gave her this evening. Nor was this akin to the one she had just given him, filled with kindness and devotion. Instead, this kiss would have all of these feelings in one, built up over what felt like an eternity of waiting. Roy may have been the Flame Alchemist, but in reality this combination of passion, affection, understanding, and protection was an overfilled pot of boiling water, ready to spill out. And this was the moment it finally did.

His bare hands cradled either side of her face, shaking as he leaned in, as if he would split into pieces if he let go of her cheeks. He moved to press his lips to hers, saying, _Yes, we deserve something_. They spent so many years communicating without a single word, and here they were, finding a new language to speak, a new set of steps to dance.

 _We deserve this_ , she responded.

 _I wish I found out what this felt like with you sooner,_ he stated.

 _It doesn’t matter, you already feel so familiar_.

_I’m sorry everything took so long._

_I don’t deserve you_.

 _Please_.

 _More_.

 _Now_.

 _Thank you_.

On and on this conversation went, with Riza eagerly accepting each kiss and meeting it with the same level of intensity. They became so lost in this dance of their mouths and tongues that he accidentally leaned a bit too far, overestimating their balance as they both fell onto an uncomfortable position on the couch.

She landed under him, her legs still dangling off the couch as if she were sitting down normally. Meanwhile, he more or less leaned on top of her horizontally, and he was instantly hyperaware of every single beat his heart made. Thankfully, he landed just quickly enough so that his head was next to hers, rather than landing on top of hers and potentially bumping their heads.

He composed himself immediately, sitting right back up on the couch and awkwardly placing his hands neatly in his lap, refusing to make eye contact with her. She laughed.

She smoothed out her turtleneck, which had bunched up at the hem and revealed just a hint of her stomach. “Sir, I don’t mean to push… but have you never done this before?” Her tone was teasing—nay, _flirtatious_ —in a way that was entirely different from her Elizabeth persona. And her eyes danced with playfulness and mirth in a brand new fashion. Even though this wasn’t a side he had ever seen out of her before, it felt so genuine.

Still, he didn’t like what she was suggesting, even if it was true. He was surrounded by beautiful women in his life, like the girls at Christmas’ bar, but he never even considered moving in that direction with them. The women who flattered him on the street, or even fellow officers who flirted with him—these weren’t an option, let alone a priority. If he was ever going to do this, there was only one woman he’d want that to be with; if it never happened, he would waste away, lacking in intimacy and waiting in solitude for at least a chance. It just so happened this woman was sitting right in front of him, and she was the one with the courage to move them forward.

“I don’t take kindly to judgment.” He met her gaze. “I had plenty of chances, but never actually had time.”

“I didn’t have time either. I committed my life to your goal,” she said calmly. Her statement was straightforward, without a hint of regret or negativity.

He blinked, putting pieces together in his mind. “Was there anyone who wanted you to make time?” He felt curiosity and jealousy sneaking through his voice, and he caught himself quickly. “I know you’re entitled to your own life.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Not that it’s any of your business,” she reminded him, “but even though there were suitors, there was never room for any other men.”

It was his turn to laugh. “Just a couple of inexperienced teenagers. Sometimes I wonder if we’ve actually grown up from living with your father.”

“We’ve grown up a lot. For example, you seem to have your own house, with your own bedroom.”

This tone was matter of fact, with the same level of neutrality as if she was telling him about his next meeting on a Monday afternoon. She wore no suggestive smile, nor did her face indicate any level of embarrassment at how forward her sentence was. But there was no mistaking the words that came out of her mouth. This was no code.

He blinked in shock, processing exactly what she was saying. From the moment he met her, of course he wanted to kiss her… but in the years after, when he learned about sexuality and what it meant to be attracted to someone, he knew he wanted to hold her in his arms. Some days he wanted to lock her in a tight embrace and gaze into her eyes and make love to her, slow and tender. Other days, he wanted to hold her wrists down and take complete control over her, telling her exactly what he was going to do and taking sweet satisfaction in pleasing her. _It’d make up for all the times she always nagged me about doing things_ , he would tell himself. And sometimes he felt such a deep urgency that his mind created a scene where he would take her in a supply closet at work and bend her over, ravishing her without so much as a glimpse of her face in ecstasy. This particular idea often left his mind just as quickly as it came in, as he couldn’t bear the thought of anything they did being so impersonal and he didn’t want to be reminded of the burden she carried on her back, but it was an idea nonetheless.

Still, he felt so out of his element. He was capable of effortlessly wooing women he had no interest in whatsoever. But now he finally had the woman of his dreams sitting right before him, and he was incapable of forming any semblance of a coherent sentence. He had nothing witty and flirtatious to add, nor did he have anything introspective and vulnerable to say. It was his turn to sit in fearthat she would change her mind. That would be her choice, and of course he would respect it if that were the case, but that hesitation would still sting nonetheless. And so he sat, his mouth slightly ajar, unable to conjure any type of response.

She laughed again. It was so good to hear this, not just from her mouth but also from her heart. This type of laugh was one of the few things he was certain only he knew about her. He loved when she gave a true laugh: the way her eyes danced, the way her chest moved, the way her nose wrinkled, the way her cheeks rose. After what felt like an entire lifetime of pain, he only gained access to it in small, private moments. The first time he heard it many years ago, he felt his heart leap out of his chest and out of the window, though he would not have ever admitted it to anyone. How fortunate he was to have this part of her.

“Sir, don’t forget that you asked me to leave Hayate behind,” she reminded him. “I can’t be here all night.”

He smiled and stood up, holding his hand out to help her up.

“All you had to do was ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of Royai fics depict Roy as making the first move, but I’m not really fond of the idea of her wasting away waiting for him while he gets to be a playboy. In my own HC, both had plenty of real opportunities to create meaningful relationships with other potential partners because they’re young, attractive, and successful, but they wouldn’t even entertain the idea. Instead, I envision them as choosing to hold out in the unlikely event they’d have a chance to be with each other. Besides, even though Roy maintains a facade of confidence, it’s truly Riza who is more self-assured and confident. ;)


	3. The Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating/tag change. Sweet, citrusy, lemony content below. :)

He had seen parts of her before, but never completely. When she asked him to burn the tattoo on her back all those years ago, he instructed her to remove all her clothing, if only because he feared it catching aflame as well. He shared this with her and she obliged, facing away from him to preserve some semblance of modesty. She did not question his intentions, nor did she need to, because he knew that she deserved dignified respect during such a vulnerable moment. The moment he set her skin aflame still gave him nightmares; the vision of her porcelain thighs and the curve of her hips was seared in his mind, forever taunting him as an alchemist whose only purpose was to cause pain, especially to those who cared about him.

That was, until tonight.

As they entered Roy’s bedroom, which was equally as barebones as the rest of his house, he sensed hesitation in her steps, eyes, and the way she held his hand. If she didn’t feel comfortable moving forward, he’d certainly feel disappointed, but he would never even entertain the idea of trying to convince her otherwise. He knew her for half his life, and there was nothing he felt more certain about than wanting to be with her, but this would only feel right if they both wanted it.

Riza smiled and squeezed his hand tightly as she closed the door, seeming to sense his thoughts. “This is what I want,” she said, taking a seat on his bed and bringing him to sit next her. “I only hope you want this, too.”

He felt as if his entire body might burst in response to the sincerity in her voice. Turning to face her, he wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. Even though they just had an entire non-verbal conversation with their mouths, and spent the entire evening baring their souls to each other in a completely unique way, he sensed that she wasn’t quite sure how to respond to this much more restrained form of affection. This uncertainty subsided quickly, as he felt her wrap her arms around him tightly.

“You deserve so much,” he responded, his breath settling on the back of her neck. “And I hope I can give you even a fraction of that.”

She pulled away from their embrace. “Don’t think too far ahead about this. We still have so much ahead of us.”

He frowned. “For once, I thought we were going to do something for ourselves.”

Still, he knew she was right. He wanted to give her the world, whatever she wanted—but even though he knew how he felt about this woman, and even though their paths were one, that path would never lead to them becoming one. Not in the ways that he wanted in every fiber of his being. Not in any of the ways she deserved.

“You and I both know we’ll carry what we’ve done forever, sir,” she reminded him. “Nothing will change that.”

It was his turn to squeeze her hand tightly. “I know,” he sighed.

She smiled: weakly at first, then with a renewed sense of energy and even a hint of playfulness. Letting go of his hand, she stood up from the bed and faced the door. He motioned to follow her, but she shook her head at him. He was puzzled—she smiled at him, but now she wasn’t even next to him. Was she leaving?

But she didn’t walk out of the door, merely standing away from him as she quickly removed her jacket and tossed it on the ground, far away from her. She heard his breath as he opened his mouth to speak, but she stood motionless, still facing away from him as she said, “You’re going to sit right there until I tell you otherwise, _sir_.”

Her pants fell to the floor, pooled at her feet. He bit his lip to prevent himself from making any noise that would give away his anticipation and longing—in fact, he bit so hard he nearly drew blood, but he didn’t even care. He felt a heaviness in his throat and it took all his energy not to stand up, hold her in his arms, and kiss her everywhere. Still, after getting this far, he didn’t want to ruin this for himself. There was too much to appreciate, too much to notice, too much to memorize.

In his years living with Christmas and her girls, he became all too familiar with the different varieties of women’s underwear. The younger girls, the ones who were still children, all sought comfortable garments because all they needed was something to get them by; they weren’t old enough to work in the bar, so they had not yet discovered the power of clothing and its effect on others. Meanwhile, the older ones who worked at the bar owned all sorts of different articles of clothing. When he was on laundry duty, he was given specific instructions by each of them on what needed cold water versus warm, what should be washed all over versus spot treated. Some of the undergarments were no more than a piece of string, some had complicated straps, some were colorful, some were lacy. He must have seen and washed hundreds of these, and not one of them looked exactly the same.

For the life of him, he couldn’t remember what kind of underwear Riza wore on the day he burned her tattoo, but he knew this wasn’t it. He always assumed she was a function-over-form type of woman; it was why she preferred to wear pants to work instead of a skirt like many of the other female officers, _or maybe she knew how distracted I’d get staring at her,_ he thought to himself with a silent chuckle.

But he definitely knew what she was wearing today. And he never imagined she would wear something that served very little purpose. Her undergarments were tame in comparison to the many he’d laundered in the past, but this slightly lacy pair of black panties astonished him nonetheless. Though the fabric covered everything in theory, in reality it was completely see-through, tightly hugging the skin where her toned bottom met the tops of her thighs. It simultaneously left so much and nothing at all to the imagination.

“You didn’t wear this expecting something to happen, did you?” he asked incredulously, feeling heat rise in his cheeks as he tried very hard to keep his eyes above her waist. He knew she couldn’t see because she faced away from him, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Much as he had spent years hoping for a moment like this, he also respected her too much to reduce his feelings down to mere physical attraction alone.

“Of course not, sir,” she said matter-of-factly. “Don’t get too confident. This is what’s comfortable for me.”

She kicked her pants away from under her and turned to face him. He gasped audibly, deeply appreciative of the frontal view of the exquisite woman standing before him. Of course she was beautiful under her clothing—for over a decade he had never met anyone as magnificent and graceful as her in every way possible. He doubted that anyone else would agree with him, but it didn’t matter. In this moment his brain ran through countless scenarios trying to rationalize how a severe recluse like Master Hawkeye could have created someone so utterly flawless. The glint of her eyes in a laugh, her exasperated sighs at his procrastination, her soft footsteps—she was so resplendent and sublime, someone he could have only dreamed of. How fortunate he was, indeed, that she could even deign to care for someone like him when she was the very definition of perfection. By what stroke of luck did he deserve someone who vowed to follow him into Hell? To touch the skin of this impeccable woman would be the ultimate privilege, and he vowed to worship her in all the ways she would allow.

He stole a look in between her thighs and observed that her undergarments were also see-through in the front, previewing the neatly trimmed blonde hair covering her mound. His gaze wandered down to her calves and feet, which were still shielded by the knee-length cable-knit socks she still had on.

“It’s raining outside,” she reminded him, sensing his eyes on her clothing. “My feet are cold.”

He laughed. “If I do things right, you won’t be cold for much longer.”

She smirked. “Is that so?” she asked flirtatiously, bringing her hands to grab the hem of her turtleneck but not actually motioning to lift it.

At that moment both his brain and mouth were temporarily unable to respond, blood coursing through his veins in response to his arousal. He was about to have a nude Riza Hawkeye in his house, and even the mere thought of it made his throat ache in desire. Right then and there he want to tackle her to the floor, to tear the rest of her clothes off as quickly as possible, to kiss and bite and lick and feel. But he knew better, and so he continued to wait for her lead.

“I would prefer for you not to look at my back.” She sighed heavily, and it became immediately clear that she was wrestling with this issue for a very long time.

“We’ll do whatever makes you comfortable and safe,” he responded with great care and affection. He was keenly aware of not just the outward dynamics of their relationship as commanding officer and adjutant but also the physical manifestation of flame alchemy’s secrets on her back, forever a reminder of the history of pain they shared. “But you should know, every part of you is so goddamned beautiful. Your skin is more beautiful than the alchemic array on your back. You’re stronger than any bout of flames I can conjure.”

Riza tackled him on the bed, clearly overcome by his declaration as she planted a large, sloppy kiss on his lips. He eagerly accepted, taking this moment to caress her thighs delicately with his fingertips before moving on to cup her bottom, one cheek in each hand. Her kisses sent shockwaves up his spine, and the feel of her bare skin on his only served to further intensify the arousal burgeoning under the fabric of his clothing. She brought her hands to his shirt, unclasping the first button, before he pulled away from her kiss and placed his hands on hers.

“Can I undress you first?” he asked hoarsely, unable to contain the lust and longing coming from every single inch of his body. “If you don’t like it, please tell me when to stop.”

She nodded, finding her way to a comfortable position on the bed with a pillow comfortably cradling her head as he hovered over her. He held the hem of her turtleneck in his hands and lifted it slowly to reveal her torso and chest, including the scar from Envy. She raised her arms up for him to pull it over her head, giving him a closer look at the scar tissue on her neck from when one of the Fuhrer candidates slit her throat in the Third Laboratory. Tossing her shirt on the floor, he attentively brushed both scars with his fingertips and felt tears gather in his eyes as he recalled how close he came to losing her.

_But she’s here now._

He marveled at the miracle of his queen laying in his bed, allowing him to remove her clothing in whatever ways he saw fit. First, he stroked the flesh above her bra tenderly with the back of his fingers, then moved down her arm. Her body shifted, her hips rising to meet his, as she took his hand and guided it to her back, where her bra sat flush on her skin. In turn, he fumbled awkwardly with just one hand on the clasp, before bringing another hand to assist him.

Upon successfully unfurling her breasts from her bra, he threw it on the floor with no regard for where it was going. He planted a soft kiss on the top of her left breast, then to the space in between them, then on top of her right breast. Each time, he heard a soft sigh escape from her throat as she writhed under him in apparent pleasure at his intimate touch. From there, he placed his hands on the waistband of her undergarments, gently removing them as she lifted her hips to assist him in his task.

Tossing the undergarments on the floor, he surveyed his room and smirked. “My bedroom floor is covered in your clothes.”

Before even allowing her to respond, he leaned in to kiss the skin between her stomach and mound, causing her to shudder and sigh once more. He moved her legs apart ever so slightly as he kissed the insides of her thighs softly and lightly, then moved them apart further to reveal what lay in between.

She frowned. “This isn’t an equivalent exchange,” she said, tugging on the collar of his shirt. “You of all people should know that.”

He shook his head. “We both know the world doesn’t work that way, just alchemy.” He paused. “But I also did say, I’ll do whatever makes you feel comfortable. Do you want me to do this?”

“Yes,” she responded, urgency and longing in her voice. “But I want everything else, too.”

Roy shifted his body up to plant a light kiss on her forehead. In some ways this might have come off as too gentle, but he didn’t want to get lost in his passion and imply he was doing any of this for the wrong reasons.

A smile emerged across his lips as he carefully planted a kiss on the side of her neck that wasn’t scarred. Even now, he feared causing her any pain or forcing her to relive the trauma of those moments they almost lost each other. _At least I can make up for it now._ He directed his attention once again to her hips, taking each side in his hands and planting soft kisses along her mound, lightly guarded by tufts of blonde hair. Setting his sights lower, he used his fingers to separate her soft folds and moved his mouth to taste her. He felt her hips buck under his tongue as a soft moan escaped her mouth, and he focused on licking every inch of this part of her. Her moans began to increase in frequency but in spite of this, her volume remained low and gentle— _just like her_ , he reminded himself. On and on he went, with all the kisses and licks he wanted to give her for so many years, until he heard her gripping his bedsheets.

He pulled away from her hips and looked up at her. “Do I keep going?” he asked.

“With all due respect, you’re still fully clothed,” Riza pointed out, chuckling slightly.

She cradled the back of his head and drew him in to kiss her before turning to unfasten the rest of the buttons on his shirt. He wriggled out of the shirt and tossed it clumsily without any regard for its destination when he felt his weight shift; suddenly, he was under her as she looked down at his torso. He opened his mouth to protest but stopped as he noticed a deeply pained look spread over her face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she remarked, setting her fingertips gently on the scar where Lust had unceremoniously sliced through his skin. “Does it still hurt?”

He shook his head. “Thankfully, not anymore.”

She leaned down to kiss the exposed scar tissue when he shifted uncomfortably. _Dammit._

“You’re ticklish.” It was a statement more than a question.

Roy frowned at her briefly before smiling. “I love you,” he blurted out. He felt his heart racing again, unsure of what compelled him to share the feelings he harbored for as long as he’d known her. He wanted to find an explanation, to tell her it was ok if she didn’t feel the same—but his vocal cords refused to let him say anything to fill the space.

“I’ve always known,” she responded simply. “About you loving me, I mean. I didn’t know you were ticklish.”

For the first time in so long he felt at a loss for words or reactions, unable to read her tone or eyes. He sighed. Of course she’d known—she knew all the important things about him, she could read him like a book. She was the smartest person he knew, so capable of recognizing people’s deepest desires and motivations, so adept at nuance. How could he have been foolish enough to think that she’d never notice?

She motioned to unfurl his belt and threw it off the bed. “I wouldn’t follow you into Hell if I didn’t feel the same.”

He sighed, relieved to hear that he wasn’t alone in the depth of his feelings and also overcome with passion at the thought of this indescribably flawless woman undressing him. She unbuttoned his pants and pulled down on the waistband, and he shifted out of them as she pulled them off his legs and threw them among the pile of clothes accumulated on the floor. Observing the arousal that continued to develop under his undergarments, Riza lightly ran her nails along the outline before cupping him under. It was his turn to shudder with the knowledge that he was completely at her mercy; the sound of his pleasure seemed to encourage her as she peeled off the thin fabric that shielded him from fully appreciating her skin on his.

From there, she grasped him in her palm and began to pump up and down as he continued to respond in soft, nearly breathless sighs. Though their entire encounter thus far already led him down a path of physical delight, he felt himself stiffen even more at her touch, in a way he’d never experienced in his years of self-pleasure. She leaned in and placed her tongue at his base, running it along the shaft in a languid motion before taking him fully into her mouth.

His body radiated like a steady, low flame and he felt every nerve ending in his body activated by the slippery touch of her mouth and all its contact points on his body. The sensation of sheer pleasure, excitement, and joy radiated through his core with each movement she made on him, and he instinctively let out a hoarse moan in response. He spent many evenings wistfully wondering what she would feel like, and now he knew that being with her made him throb so hard he felt he might burst into a million pieces. Each small adjustment she made developed not just physical but also emotional tension in him: he wanted to fully enjoy her in this moment, but he didn’t want to enjoy her too much because there was so much left to do, so much time to make up for. Her touch made him tremble as he felt himself approaching the edge, and she skillfully brought him back down, because of course she could— _we’ve never done this before and she somehow already knows me this way, too._

“Please,” he managed to groan, “I want all of you. I thought I’d never get to see you again, and now I need to see all of you.”

Their eyes met as she lifted her head from his hips and motioned to straddle him. This very moment would be branded in his memory forever: this vision of an angel descending upon him, her usually hardened eyes softened by passion and affection, her soft hands trusting him in a completely new way.

She hovered above his hips and used one hand to guide him inside gently and slowly, her other hand clasping his. He groaned at the tight warmth enclosed over him, and she sighed heavily in response. At first neither of them moved once she settled on top of him, unsure of how to proceed and fearful of hurting the other, but their eyes locked and had an entire conversation without their voices. She placed her hands on his hips to create leverage as she began to move up and down cautiously and lovingly. As he looked up to observe her, he likened this sensation to being at the Gate: a sensory overload between the feel of her grip around him, the vision of every inch of her body, the scent of her skin and arousal, the taste of her moisture still on his lips, the sound of her sighs and moans, and so much more that he couldn’t even process.

He placed his hands on her hips to grab her ass before moving up to cup her unbelievably soft breasts. In response, she leaned down to place them closer to his face, prompting him to take one nipple in his mouth and gently lick it while tracing the other one with his fingertip. Her speed on top of him increased slightly and he felt a jolt of electricity surge throughout his body, with every single inch of his skin tingling to meet her. It took all his effort not to close his eyes—he lost his sight once already, he couldn’t bear the thought of not being able to witness her radiant visage lost in the throes of ecstasy. For years this felt like a dream of his that would never be actualized, but here she was, even better than he could have ever imagined.

The rhythm of their bodies and their fully complete understanding of each other was so utterly, overwhelmingly perfect. He took hold of her and clutched her shoulders, embracing her as she picked up her pace with a greater sense of urgency, her breasts resting upon his chest. Her soft sighs evolved into deep, hoarse groans as he felt her tighten even more around him. In that moment he felt as if he might fall apart, and she continued to ride him until he felt her walls close around him firmly. She gasped his name and leaned down to kiss him as she came, and he soon followed her to the edge, his skin radiating pleasure and pulsing uncontrollably as he rode this wave.

Riza left a gentle kiss on his forehead before hoisting herself up from him with the same gentle softness at the beginning of their encounter. She walked towards the trail of clothing littered throughout the bedroom, collecting her clothing and leaving his behind.

“Sorry about your bedsheets,” she mumbled.

He frowned as he saw her put her undergarments back on. This end felt so abrupt, and he wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye yet. He didn’t even have the opportunity to hold her in his arms and bask in the aftermath of their union.

“Can’t you at least stay for a few hours?” he grumbled, still reeling from the pleasure and shock of their most intimate, vulnerable moment.

She shook her head, clasping her bra behind her back. “You’re the one who told me to leave Hayate at home.”

He stood up and fished around on the ground for his boxers before pulling them on. “What if I go to your house and pick him up?”

“With all due respect, this is not a negotiation,” she said, straightforward as ever, but her eyes glistened and lips curled up in a playful smile as she pulled on the remainder of her clothing. “There’s no need. This isn’t the end.”

He grinned at her implication, still awestruck at both her physical beauty and her uncanny ability to combine serious and playful. He followed as she walked out of the bedroom door and began to pull her boots on.

“Will you at least call me when you get home so I know you’re safe?’

She nodded and picked up her umbrella, giving him a gentle kiss on the cheek.

“Good night, sir. Stay home, don’t go back to the bar.”

She opened the front door and prepared her umbrella for the still-torrential downpour outside.

“I love you," she whispered quietly. He barely heard her, and by the time he fully registered her words, she had already shut the door behind her as she made her way back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found myself wondering why the hell I decided to write this from Roy’s perspective since I don’t have the same stuff between my legs, so major thanks to my spouse for patiently describing what different acts feel like and answering all my questions with no judgment. Writing this scene was so layered for me because as a queer person I didn’t want to describe body parts in a gendered way and as a survivor I needed to make this explicitly consent-based, especially given the inherent power balance of commanding officer and adjutant. (I’ve been part of this fandom basically its entire existence so I know their relationship is deeper than that, but still!)
> 
> I also love the concept of an awkward, inexperienced Roy juxtaposed with a generally composed Riza, because at the end of the day, I think that’s actually the core of who they are when the curtains are pulled back. As a detail-oriented person, I don’t know if I 100% love how this turned out, but the last time I wrote a lemon scene like this, I don’t think I’d ever actually had sex yet, so I’m sure it’s still an improvement, lol.
> 
> Anyway, feedback 100% welcome!


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